What Was I Saying...?

I've had "get gneech.com fixed up" on the Too Much To Do list for some time now, and last night's flurry of "Testing, testing!" is part of that. My general plan is for gneech.com to be my "I Are Actual Writer!" site, while the good ol' LJ account will be more of my daily ramblings. To that end I've been trying to settle on a design that is clean and functional but suits my personality (or at least my "writerly persona," which hopefully isn't too far afield from my actual personality). It will also be a central connection for my wide array of scattered sites and interests. Your One Stop Gneech Shop, so to speak, for anybody who may be in the market for Gneeches.

It still needs some sprucing up to give it a bit more personality ... if nothing else it needs a typewriter on it 'cause dangit, I love typewriters. It also needs to have some of the missing content folded back in (particularly my bibliography).

One other major piece that needs to be put into place is that the Brigid and Greg Fictionlets are going to move over there. (Sorry, tr_wolf, they'll still appear here, too.) That's going to be something that requires doing in increments over time, just because there are so many Fictionlets now, but as I write new ones they're going to be "native" over there.

I have the site set up so that any posts I make there will echo over here, so if you've been reading the Fictionlets on your friends page and want to keep on doing so, you're set to go. However, if you're only interested in my writing and don't care about things like my search for a cellphone or how the cats or doing (or whatever), you can follow gneech.com's RSS feed to get the business end of my writing updates.

As I've said, the site is still a work in progress, so if you have any suggestions or requests, I'd love to hear 'em.

-The Gneech

If you count the parts of the first Brigid and Greg novel that have already been written (in the form of Fictionlets), I've already got 8,000 words.

Not bad, actually. :) Of course, most of those will need some editing and revising to smooth them together (and at least one needs to be shifted to third person from first), so it's not like 8,000 "finished" words, but 8,000 words of rough draft.

Also, going through the Fictionlets, I am starting to see which ones are likely to be in the second novel, and some elements of its plot starting to take shape.

I know, I know, I'm supposed to be getting that Suburban Jungle treasury published. But dang it, it's been so long since I finished a novel! I'm jonesing for it in a big way. And while the other novel project I started last year simmers for a while, it's a good time to start cranking this one out.

The hardest part of writing a B&G novel, is going to be writing stuff and not posting it. After ten years of doing webcomics, I've gotten rather dependent on the instant feedback. I have a few beta readers, tho, so hopefully they'll have some useful things to say.

I admit it ... I'm excited!

-The Gneech

My mom came home from the hospital yesterday, as her body finally started responding to the pneumonia treatment. She's not "well," but she is "better," and better enough that Betsy, DeOrman and I can cautiously return to our own respective problems. Similarly, lythandra is responding to her own antibiotics, and most of the various afflictions I was dealing with last week are greatly reduced -- with the exception of the gunk back in my lungs, which is probably going to require another round of steroids.

Thank you, flu, thank you SO bloody much. :P

The upshot of all this is that we're back at work today, so I can start digging myself out from under that. I also started actually doing some work on the theoretical Brigid and Greg novel this weekend. Only a page or so, but the first time I've been enthused about working on anything for a while, so I'll take what I can get. There may be some "continuity" changes in the works for those two, in as much as they have a continuity so far, largely to add more hooks for getting them out of the house and into trouble. There's only so much clever banter in the living room a novel (or hopefully, series of novels) can sustain without getting cabin fever.

This week, my priorities are a) get some exercise, and b) do more writing!

-The Gneech

"Wait a minute..." muttered Greg. "Why, you sneaky so-and-so!"

"What?" said Brigid, from across the room.

"I got it! I got it!" Greg said, brandishing a newspaper at her. "See, it's not just down and across. Each of these smaller boxes also go from one to nine! That makes it much easier. You don't have to keep track of the whole puzzle all at once, just each one of these!"

Brigid blinked at the half-finished sudoku puzzle Greg was enthusing over. "Congratulations," she said. "You've mastered a rudimentary concept known to a bazillion retirees worldwide. Maybe you'd like to walk up to McDonalds for some coffee and a rousing game of checkers."

"Fine," said Greg, turning his back to her. "Just for that, I'm not going to tell you the answer to today's Super-Scramble."

-The Gneech

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"Roooger Ramjet, he's our man! Heeeee-ro of our nation!" sang Greg. "For his adventures just be sure to stay tuned to this sta-tion!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Brigid said. "Why, of all the things you could be singing, did you pick the theme song to a forty-year-old cartoon that frankly wasn't anything to write home about when it was new? What goes on in that brain of yours?"

Greg, frozen in place like somebody caught with his hand in the cookie jar, silently looked around, moving only his eyes back and forth in an exaggerated mode of alarm for several seconds. Finally, he sang, "Toooooom Slick! Toooooom Slick! Let! Me! Tell you why! He's the best of all the guys!"

"Oh for Pete's sake," said Brigid, heading for the door. "I'm getting out of here."

"There's no such word as 'I'm getting out of here' in automobile racing, Marigold!" Greg called after her.

"Shut up!" she replied, slamming the door behind her.

-The Gneech

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"'We don't need no education? We don't need no thought control?' Obviously you can't take that at face value," Brigid said. "It's satire, it's got to be. It's like A Modest Proposal. They're not really advocating an anti-education point of view. They're making fun of it."

"I'm afraid I must disagree," said Alex. "First of all, there's no evidence within the song that it's anything but just exactly what it says. The idea that such an idea is so over-the-top as to be untenable is more a matter of personal bias than anything actually in the text. Furthermore, you have to look at the song within the context of the larger work. 'The Wall' is a rock-opera, a large single work, of which the song is just a smaller part. It's about isolation, it's about a series of abusive relationships that lead to a socially- and emotionally-broken protagonist. The teachers in 'The Wall' are mean, small-minded, vicious — 'just another brick in the wall' that separates the character Pink from the rest of the world. And as a largely-autobiographical work by Roger Waters, there's no reason not to think that it is, in fact, based on his own teachers. Far from making fun of an anti-education point of view, it sounds to me like an anthem devoted to the idea of eliminating schools all together."

"That's ridiculous," said Brigid. "And furthermore, you're a stupid-head."

"Oh I am, am I?" said Alex. "Well let's turn to the expert, here. You're the literary guy, Greg, what do you think? Straightforward rant, or sly satire?"

"Well," said Greg, "I think you're both overlooking a much more important question here: specifically, how can you have your pudding if you don't eat your meat?"

Brigid and Alex both nodded, impressed. "That is a stumper," said Brigid.

-The Gneech

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"No! NO! Not NOW!!!" shouted Brigid, pummeling the blue screen of her laptop in helpless frustration. "Dammit, I've got to get this thing out the door tonight!" She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath; then she reached for the phone and dialed the Help Desk extension.

"Blisto, help desk," came the voice on the other end of the line. Brian Blisto, one of the many I.T. guys with bizarre names.

"Hi, it's Brigid," she said. "My laptop's just gone BSOD for the third time today; I need you guys to get me fixed up 'cause this proposal has got to go out."

"Huh, not good," said Blisto. "Let me if any techs are available. It looks like Who's on-call, What's in the server room, and I Don't Know's configuring the phones."

"Wha huh?" said Brigid.

Blisto said, "Who's on-call, What's in the server room, and I Don't Know's configuring the phones."

Brigid blinked. "Uh, right. Well, send me the on-call technician please."

"Who."

"The on-call technician."

"Who."

"The on-call technician!"

"Who is on-call!"

"I'm asking you who's on-call!"

"That's his name."

"Who?"

"Yes."

"So tell me his name!"

"Who."

"The on-call technician!" demanded Brigid. "What's his name?"

"No," said Blisto, "What's in the server room."

"I don't know!"

"He's configuring the phones, you're not having trouble with those are you?"

"The phones?" said Brigid. "How did I get to be talking about the phones?"

"You mentioned the tech's name."

"Who's name?"

"No, Who's on-call."

"I don't know!"

"He's configuring the phones."

Brigid stopped and blinked a few times. "Look," she finally said, "what's the name of the on-call technician?"

"No, What's in the server room."

"I'm not asking who's in the server room."

"Who's on-call."

"I don't know. Configuring the phones!" she snapped, cutting Blisto off. After a few seconds of mutually-frustrated silence, she said sweetly, "Do you have any contractor support?"

"Yeah, when the load's too heavy, we call in temps."

"Fine. Send me one of the temps, please."

"Okay, I'll send Tomorrow."

"I can't wait for tomorrow, this proposal's got to go out tonight!"

"Why?"

"So the company stays in business and we all stay employed, doofus."

"No, I mean I'll send Why if you don't like Tomorrow."

Brigid twitched. "What?"

"He's in the server room."

"Who's in the server room?"

"No, Who's on-call."

"I don't know — configuring the phones!"

"Don't have a cow, lady," said Blisto. "I'm trying to help you. But I have to know which technician to send."

"I don't care which technician! Just send somebody!"

"Sorry, say that again?"

"I said, 'Just send somebody."

"The I.T. manager? Okay, if you insist. But I've got to warn you, he can be kind of confusing."

Brigid's telephone went through two layers of drywall and ended up in the accounting department.

-The Gneech

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"OOOOOOH Lord, it's hard to be humble," sang Greg loudly and badly, "when yer perfikt in EEEEEEEv-er-eeee way!"

"Oh God," snarled Brigid. "Please. Seriously. Stop."

Greg frowned. "Now what?"

"Please. You, perfect in every way? Where do you come up with these things?"

"Neither am I a rambler, a gambler, and a long way from home," said Greg, "but that wouldn't stop me from singing about it. This may come as a surprise to you, my young prune, but I sing because I enjoy singing, not because I'm trying to send coded messages to the world."

"You don't really expect me to believe you enjoy singing bad country music, do you?"

"There's an interesting paradox there; what would you consider good country music?"

"Johnny Cash and Vaughn Monroe," Brigid said without hesitation.

"Oooh! Good choices. How about Buck Owens and Roy Clark?"

"Are you trying to make me shoot you?"

"I guess that's a 'no,' then. But however you may feel about Hee-Haw, Roy Clark has some pretty amazing guitar chops."

"Like I care about amazing guitar chops," said Brigid.

"Actually, 'The Amazing Guitar Chops' would be a good name for a ramblin' country band," Greg said.

"You are trying to make me shoot you," said Brigid. "I'm leaving before I get arrested."

Greg was singing "Momma Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" before she reached her room.

-The Gneech

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Uncle Bob shook his head. "I'm worried about you, my boy. Worried! All you ever do is sit around this bourgeois apartment you've set up for yourself, clacking away at the keyboard, taking abuse from that harridan. You need, in short, to get a life."

Greg shook his head. "I have a life, thank you, and one that suits me nicely. I'm a natural-born keyboard clacker."

"Balls!" said Uncle Bob. "You're too young spend your life sitting on your butt. Now, as your Godfather and brother to the lovely lady who gave you life, I feel responsible for you, and it's my duty to see that you get out there and experience the grand tapestry of life."

"You? Responsible?"

"Don't sound so dubious, you little brat! I've had a long and rich life, and I know whereof I speak."

Greg pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. "You spent the '70s riding in the back of a van with a band called 'Fab Rick and the Softeners'."

"Exactly! We had adventures, my boy. Adventures!"

"Like being held for ten days in a county jail on possession charges?" Greg said. "Sounds thrilling."

"Who told you about that?"

"That would be the lovely lady who gave me life you mentioned earlier," Greg said. "Mother was very fond of you, Uncle Bob, but she had no illusions about you, either."

"Well, it wasn't my marijuana anyway," said Bob. "I was an innocent bystander, and that deputy had it in for us from the start."

"Don't they all?" said Greg, and turned back to his keyboard.

-The Gneech

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"Bread and butter," said Greg.

"Cheese and crackers," countered Brigid.

"Thunder and lightning?"

"Pride and prejudice."

"Freebie and the Bean?"

"BJ and the Bear."

"Chico and the man."

"Bennie and the Jets."

"Benny and Joon."

"Rosencrantz and Gildenstern."

"Damon and Pythias."

"Castor and Pollux."

"Abbot and Costello."

"Grant and Lee."

"Chip and Dale."

"Josie and the Pussycats."

"Scylla and Charybdis."

"Romulus and Remus."

"Sodom and Gomorrah."

"Breaking and entering."

"Jeeves and Wooster."

"The devil and Daniel Webster."

"The devil and the deep, blue sea."

"The old man and the sea."

"The ghost and Mrs. Muir."

"Tippecanoe and Tyler, too."

"Four score and seven years."

"Stars and stripes."

"Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet."

"No," said Brigid, shaking her head. "That's four."

"So it is," said Greg. "I concede."

-The Gneech

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